


Your Sweetest Look Will Easily Unclose Me

by Birdbitch



Category: Romeo And Juliet - Shakespeare
Genre: Canon Era, Fights, M/M, Summer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-02
Updated: 2016-03-02
Packaged: 2018-05-24 06:32:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6144664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Birdbitch/pseuds/Birdbitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a street fight, Benvolio licks his wounds with Mercutio.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Sweetest Look Will Easily Unclose Me

**Author's Note:**

> Assume, for a moment, that Benvolio really is the kind of guy who gets worked up and the accuses other people of starting fights all the time, and that while Mercutio was referring to himself with such a statement, it still holds true for Benvolio, who, while normally of the phlegmatic disposition, can be moved to fight; in which case, a fight between Tybalt and Benvolio would be like a conflict between an unstoppable force and an immovable object. Or something.

Benvolio learned a while ago that it was better to keep his eyes open and his mouth shut around Capulets, and yet he still can’t stop talking anytime Tybalt riles him up. As much as he pretends to be the more responsible of the Montague boys (“Ah, Uncle, yes, I’ll make sure Romeo is doing alright,” and that), he’s prone to fighting.

  
If he’s honest, he’s lucky it didn’t come to sabers today; his split lip hurts enough as it is and he’s not so sure he’d handle a stab wound any better. They both walk away licking their wounds, Tybalt maybe with a broken nose (and Benvolio hopes so) and Benvolio with his busted lip and torn knuckles. Street brawls are not what gentlemen do; he tells his aunt that it’s lucky then for Romeo to be the heir. The summer heat’s getting to him, his uncle assuages her, besides, all Montague boys fight. Isn’t that why you picked me?

  
He excuses himself from the study while they get close again, makes his way back out of the palazzo and into the streets again. He’ll be turned away from the Prince’s estate looking as he does: Disheveled, dark curls damp with sweat and sticking out at odd angles, the blood on his mouth and his hands--but he goes anyway, walks around the backway Mercutio showed him back when they were children. Sneaking into the royal palace should be more difficult, he thinks, jumping a fence. So much for being phlegmatic--the summer makes fools of everyone, and Romeo is still mooning over another girl each week. If the weather makes him this, he should be thankful he doesn’t look like a fool.

  
A servant recognizes him immediately and is, first, startled, and then, remembering himself, runs to fetch cold water and a damp cloth. “Mercutio is here?” Benvolio asks. The servant nods his head, maybe afraid to speak. Does everything fear a rock when it moves? He doesn’t know the answer, but watches the servant in clothes that much be too warm run back into the house which is, hopefully, cooler in the shade. While waiting, Benvolio strips off his jerkin and the doublet under it. What a fool he was to wear so much! He should have known that someone like Tybalt would be looking for a fight.

  
“Capulet was just here. You should be lucky he’s not pressing charges.” Mercutio’s voice sounds high pitched, like he might have actually been worried. When Benvolio looks, he sees that the other man is dressed in a loose linen shirt and no boots. He looks like he belongs in a pasture with a bunch of sheep, comfortable in the weather and pleasantly surprised by Benvolio’s appearance. “Your lip is still bleeding.”

  
“So you won’t give me a kiss?”

  
Mercutio approaches, grabs the damp cloth and presses it to the offending bottom lip. It must have split again, since the white of the fabric turns a burnt orange before he pulls it away and drags it down Benvolio’s now bare chest. “I wish I had been there. I would have shown him what a real fight is like.”

  
“And spoil your cousin’s attempts to marry into the family? Unlikely.”

  
“I’m not like you; I don’t care about my cousin’s affairs.”

“Tsk. Romeo’s affairs are as much your business as they are mine.”

  
“Unfortunately.” He squeezes the cloth to watch the water roll down Benvolio’s chest in rivlets. “But he is my friend, and Paris is not.”

  
Benvolio doesn’t grab Mercutio’s wrist, which is a clear indication that whatever heat had risen up in his chest has settled into something more low and smoldering deep in his gut. It’s not that he doesn’t want to, it’s that he’s willing to wait for what he wants, and he knows if he tries to grab at Mercutio at all, all he’ll end up with is a pair of wet hands and a laugh directed at his stupid face. “My uncle forgave me.”

  
“You are golden. Your uncle forgives everything provided you keep Romeo in line.” Mercutio glances up at him from under long eyelashes and licks his own bottom lip, looking like he’s trying to find the spot where Benvolio’s is injured on himself. He swallows then, pulls himself away. “Someone said it feels like a thunderstorm later.”

“You’ll have to put shoes on,” Benvolio remarks, still not moving, comfortable enough with Mercutio’s hand still on his chest.  
Mercutio hums, considering this, before slipping away, dropping the cloth in the water and pulling Benvolio to his feet. “Not if you come inside.”

“Aren’t you the one who said I’m lucky the Prince or Capulet hasn’t decided to press charges?”

“He wouldn’t dare ruin my attempts to marry into your family.” It’s not sneaking in if the Prince already knows that he’s there, but they still go through the servants’ entrance, still make their way upstairs through the servants’ stairwell, and Benvolio sees broken glass and wishes Mercutio would let him carry him instead. “So quiet, Benvolio--did the cat get your tongue after all?” he asks in a hushed voice, and Benvolio groans, knows a goad when he hears it.

He can’t help that he presses Mercutio against the wall then, despite whoever might be around--the Prince or Valentine or, God forbid, Paris--kisses him. Mercutio squirms, and Benvolio worries for a second about losing him until he feels hands around his shoulders, scratching the past the collar of his open clothing and against his back. Mercutio likes being kissed well enough, keens into it when Benvolio does something he likes. “Have I lost my tongue?” he asks, feeling bold. Very well: Uncle considers them distantly related to Jupiter (“Though we are good Christians, remember, boys,” in church), sons from him once upon a time, and if that gives reason to Benvolio’s impulses towards men with high cheekbones and lithe bodies, well. So be it; Hadrian felt the same, he’s sure.

Benvolio’s mind doesn’t stay well in once place, though he’s prone to moments of intense concentration on nothing else, and Mercutio is determined to make himself the object of Benvolio’s focus. “Come on, then” he says. “I don’t want anyone else to get to see you like this.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you've enjoyed this (and it's been a while since I've spent any time with these characters), leave a comment because those are my lifeblood and I strive for praise. Additionally, check me out on tumblr at sailorbirdie.tumblr.com.


End file.
